Sparkle | Saltburn

08

The next morning, a soft light filtered through the grand windows of Saltburn's dining room, casting a warm glow on the elegant table set for breakfast. The polished silverware gleamed, and the delicate china plates were neatly arranged. An air of quiet sophistication hung over the room, but underneath, a palpable tension simmered.

Oliver was the first to arrive, feeling out of place in his surroundings. He moved awkwardly, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a familiar anchor in a sea of opulence. He took a seat at the large, wooden table, noting the intricate details of the carvings, and waited, unsure of the morning protocol.

Soon, the rest of the family began to trickle in. Elspeth entered with an air of practiced grace, followed closely by James, who looked every bit the patriarch in his tailored morning suit. Venetia, always the picture of understated elegance, followed with Farleigh trailing behind. They each took their seats with the ease of routine.

To Oliver's surprise, Phoebe was among the last to join. She entered the room with Felix by her side, her eyes still slightly puffy from the previous night. Despite her disheveled appearance, she managed a small, strained smile. Felix guided her to the table, and they sat down next to each other.

The staff, moving efficiently and silently, began to bring out the food. Phoebe and Felix were promptly served a full English breakfast, the plates piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, and mushrooms. The sight of the hearty meal made Oliver's stomach growl, and he felt a momentary pang of longing for such attentive service.

Oliver observed the scene, trying to gauge the dynamics at play. Elspeth's demeanor was particularly striking. She doted on Phoebe with a kind of overbearing affection, treating her more like a cherished daughter than a guest. Elspeth's every word and action seemed to be steeped in an assumption that Phoebe and Felix were destined to be married. She spoke to Phoebe in a condescendingly sweet tone, her inquiries about Phoebe's well-being laced with a dismissiveness.

"Are you feeling better this morning, dear?" Elspeth asked, her voice dripping with false concern.

Phoebe nodded meekly, her gaze fixed on her plate. She didn't trust herself to speak, knowing that her emotions were still raw.

Meanwhile, Oliver sat quietly, waiting for his turn to be served. The staff, however, seemed to overlook him entirely. Finally, mustering his courage, he spoke up.

"Excuse me," He said, trying to sound polite but firm, "may I request a full English as well?"

The butler glanced at him briefly, "You'll need to plate your own food. I'll bring you the eggs."

Oliver nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. He stood and awkwardly made his way to the sideboard where an assortment of breakfast items were laid out. As he reached for the toast and sausages, he felt the weight of several pairs of eyes on him. He could sense their judgment, their silent amusement at his apparent ignorance of the household customs.

When Oliver returned to his seat, the butler brought him a small plate with a single poached egg. He thanked him quietly and began to eat, trying to ignore the awkwardness that hung in the air.

Oliver tried to engage in the conversation, but found it difficult to break through the polite barriers the family had erected. He felt like an outsider, tolerated but not truly accepted.

Phoebe, for her part, remained quiet, her usual bubbly demeanor replaced by a subdued melancholy. She picked at her food, occasionally glancing at Felix for reassurance. Felix, ever the attentive companion, would squeeze her hand or offer her a comforting smile, but it was clear that something was amiss.